


Chokehold

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: Breathplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breathplay.  Kurt's neckerchiefs have always served more than one purpose, and Blaine finally figures out what that means.  </p>
<p>Warnings: detailed descriptions of choking/breath restriction and subtle BDSM & D/S themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chokehold

Blaine irons while Kurt lays out the strips of fabric on the table beside their bed with careful, even spacing. It's Friday night, they are both home, and Kurt's audition is in two days. Everything about his outfit, down to the color and arrangement of his pocket square, has to be perfect.

Blaine has been wonderful this week, canceling plans and coming home early just to help him prepare. They're in the final stages—down to accent choices and shoe selection, and Kurt is getting twitchy. He's been off his game for days, nerves and the desire to be flawless making him more awkward than usual. Even with Blaine's presence, he's had to resort to Ambien the last two nights, and that's telling.

The smell of warm fabric and Blaine's repetitive motions as he irons is soothing, though, and even though Kurt's pulse is spiking, he's okay for the moment.

"Alright," Blaine says, bringing over the last of the neckerchief choices. "We've got a pastel, a few patterns, and a few solids—"

They've done this dozens of time together, rearranging outfits, taking photos from different angles and then spending hours comparing the details. The routine is soothing for Kurt, so much so that when his fingers won't do what he wants them to do, he's relaxed enough to let Blaine tuck and fold and tie for him.

In the end, it comes down to the neckerchiefs. Kurt has been so picky about and insistent on them lately that it becomes a debate in no time.

On and off they go, Blaine's capable fingers securing the knot at Kurt's throat or the nape of his neck or off to the side, depending on which type it is, and in the bright light of the bedroom in front of the floor-length mirror, Kurt falls into a lull watching Blaine tie and smooth and untie again. It's either the result of haste or an accident that with each change, he ties the smooth, freshly-creased cloths tighter and tighter, until Kurt feels his breathing restricted if he moves too suddenly.

If he's being honest, this is sort of why he's taken to wearing them with almost all of his more formal outfits lately. The feeling of restriction is both reassuring and slightly frightening, a mixture of teasing danger while feeling grounded that tempers both extremes to a workable combination. And when he adds Blaine into the mix—

It's safe. It's so safe, and so comfortable, that it feels almost healthy. It's never felt that way on its own before.

He watches Blaine move around him through the mirror, feeling every throb of his pulse against the cloth of the tie around his throat, too tight and yet somehow not tight enough.

"It's kind of loose," he says, his voice scratchy.

Blaine tilts his head. "Really? It felt—" He sees the soft, almost pleading look in Kurt's eyes, and stops mid-sentence. "Okay. Here, let me." The next silky length of fabric is even tighter, biting in across his Adam's apple as Blaine adjusts the ends, his fingertips warm and his breathing coming slightly faster against Kurt's chin.

Kurt endures the sensation of feeling shaky, unsteady on his feet, and completely taken care of at the same time. It's unsettling, because Blaine has no clue what he's feeling and thinking and yet somehow has still sensed something different about this evening and adjusted accordingly.

Blaine tucks the tip of one fingertip inside the neckerchief and runs it around the side of Kurt's throat, smoothing the fabric and stroking skin at the same time. He licks his lips and leans in closer, and Kurt's skin flashes hot. He feels his dick throb in the unforgiving snug clasp of the slacks that he's wearing, and as he'd skipped underwear to see the fit without lines, he can feel it rather intently.

"I'm not sure if silk is the right choice," Blaine offers, clearing his throat. "Maybe linen?"

Kurt's vision blurs, and his breathing becomes the boundary of his current thought process. He feels strange and light and when Blaine ties a length of linen around his neck, his knees wobble.

"It feels wrong," he says, steadying himself. "Um."

"Cotton," Blaine says, and takes one from the neat row.

He stands behind Kurt and ties the cloth from behind, arranging the knot precisely over Kurt's Adam's apple. He pauses, and then at the last second he gives it a soft yank, dragging the knot firmly and perhaps a little roughly against Kurt's throat.

Kurt swallows, with difficulty because the cloth is so tight, his heart racing and his thoughts scattering and his cock aching. He's going to get hard if this keeps up, and though they've come a long way, it will still be awkward to explain.

It's one of the things that he's never found the segue to bring up since they got back together. How do you tell your boyfriend that you've been making a habit of form-fitting clothing and accessories as much for relief as for fashion? Or that the reason why you lose it so completely when he cups and kisses your neck is that you're busy fantasizing about what it might be like if he just held you there a little tighter, if he gripped you long and hard enough to leave the marks of his fingers behind, long enough to stop the air in your throat, to make your brain go numb from lack of oxygen, and then to release you and send it rushing euphorically back in? How do you tell him that the thought of him wielding that level of control over you makes you feel both desperate and comforted at the same time?

"Honey?" Blaine whispers, cupping his face. "We need to change these pants."

This sends a rush of too-keen-for-the-situation panic through Kurt. "What?" he asks, blinking. "The pants were the first thing that we agreed on. They're perfect. I don't want to change them now. We'll have to re-do the entire outfit if we change the pants."

"Kurt," Blaine says, and kisses him. "You—there's a stain."

Kurt jerks away, and looks down. There's a sprawling wet spot down the left pant leg near his upper thigh, where he's—

_Oh. Oh, god._

Blaine kisses him again. "Talk to me?"

For whatever reason, his eyes burn with a sudden glaze. He blinks, and wobbles forward, putting his hands on Blaine's biceps. "This audition—I've been really tense." Blaine nods. Kurt swallows thickly, distracted by Blaine's fingers on his jaw, so close to where he wants—needs—them. "When I get wound up, sometimes—the way I dress, it helps."

Blaine is staring at him with a mixture of surprise and interest, so intent that it makes him shiver. And then, with deliberation, Blaine tugs the knot at his throat undone. He exhales. The rush of being able to breathe free and clear again is as heady as the denial of that ability had been just moments before.

Blaine's fingers stroke his neck, cupping and then twining around the slender column to lock at the back. He squeezes, and Kurt's brain goes blank with pleasure.

"I need to sit down," he murmurs. The room is tilting, and he's hard enough to pound nails.

"Of course."

He sits on the end of their bed gracelessly, and Blaine stands between his legs, stroking his hair, his face, and his neck with careful movements. Blaine reaches over, selects a fresh, stiff neckerchief, and turns it over his knuckles.

"If I—will you tell me when it's as tight as you want it?" he asks, tipping Kurt's face up by the underside of his chin.

Kurt stares up at Blaine, feeling hazy and strange. "Please. Yes."

From the moment that Blaine works the cloth, twining it around his neck, adjusting it higher, and cinching the knot, Kurt begins to feel himself float—it's a feeling that he's only been able to achieve once or twice on his own, his own fingers twisting either in some kind of neck accessory or that one time he'd been a little buzzed off of champagne and loose from Ambien and he'd wrapped a hand around his throat and squeezed until black spots had begun to float in front of his eyes and he'd come fucking between two pillows, harder than he had since the last time that he'd been with Blaine.

When Blaine jerks the knot tighter, and tighter, and tighter, that feeling of floating grows edges, sharp and sudden, like the dance of needle points across his trembling, hot skin, creating awareness and the threat of pain but not making him feel unsafe.

When it's just this side of too much, when it begins to feel uncomfortable, he grinds out, "Okay."

"Is that good?" Blaine asks, so gentle, so warm. "Do you like the way that feels?"

"Yeah," Kurt replies, his eyelids flickering. They feel heavy. His body feels heavy, wrapped around his thoughts like weighted sackcloth, and the relief of being contained this way is headier still. His emotions twist and snap, making his heart surge in his chest. "B-Blaine." His pants are uncomfortable, and the wet spot on his leg is spreading.

Blaine kisses his forehead, and reaches down to open his pants. His cock is damp at the head, and it's so sensitive that when Blaine pulls him out he whimpers. His fingers and scalp are tingling, and he thinks there might be tears on his face but he isn't sure when that had happened.

"If I squeeze and touch you at the same time, would that be okay?"

Wild desire writhes in Kurt's chest. He fists his hands in Blaine's shirt and holds on.

"Please. Please."

The implication alone is enough to make him desperate for the relief he knows that will bring. A part of him has held back from sharing this with Blaine simply because he'd never thought it could feel the same sharing it with another person, but he can't believe how wrong he had been. Blaine understands him, even when not all of their edges fit perfectly together.

Blaine hooks two fingers in the very limited space between the neckerchief and Kurt's throat. He wraps his right hand around Kurt's cock. It starts off slowly—just a tug to draw the cloth tighter, and his fist loose around Kurt's cock. Kurt spreads his thighs and inches to the edge of the bed, but that's all he can manage before the dizzying loss of breath begins to affect him.

Second by second, the draw becomes enough to cut off his air, and finally he can't breathe at all. He feels nothing but blind contentment atop completely subsumed, physical panic, and the sound of Blaine's hand jacking his cock. He tingles and then doesn't, feels his fingers spasm and then go still. And then it's nothing, beautiful flat perfect nothing, all of the tension and worry in his mind and body dissolving in the whirlwind.

When it's too much, he whines and taps Blaine's chest, and Blaine slowly releases his grip.

The rush of oxygen sings through his blood and makes his brain flower with color and sound and sensation, and he gasps, and feels his cock pulse and drip in Blaine's hand. He reels, clutching Blaine's shirt. The spasms work their way through his body, taking the panic with them.

"Oh, god," he breathes, arching his neck. "Oh god, oh—"

Blaine huffs out an overwhelmed, aroused breath. "Again?"

"Yes," Kurt moans.

He puts three fingers behind the band of cloth this time, and when he tugs he's rougher, drawing it up against Kurt's throat and twisting it around to drag the material tighter. He times the tightening with his hand on Kurt's cock, cinching and releasing several times before they stop again. Kurt feels like he's coming apart at the seams, and it's perfect.

"I could use my hands," Blaine says through their mutual panting.

"Oh my god," Kurt sobs, rutting his hips up, driving his cock through Blaine's fist.

"Next time. After I do some research. I don't want to hurt you. But I could—I could just wrap my hands around your throat. I would have better control that way, and I would be able to feel everything, feel you—ch-choke—"

"Fuck," Kurt whines, as Blaine squeezes the cloth around his throat, as Blaine's hand flies. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

It's too much. He'd never thought that Blaine would get it this quickly, would be able to hone in on exactly what he needs to hear and feel and anticipate. The oxygen deprivation is making everything tick about two seconds behind reality. The disconnection becomes connection because it allows him to let go, and Blaine's desire validates it, makes it okay, makes it better than okay.

And oh, god, he's going to come. He's going to come so fucking hard, he's going to let go so fucking completely—

He can do that. He can fall apart in Blaine's presence, under Blaine's touch, with Blaine's support. It's okay to feel this way, it's okay to need it, and he's never really believed that before.

Blaine ducks low, holds him closer and nips the side of Kurt's throat with his teeth as he twists the material in rough jerks to maintain the pressure and then relieve it. His fist is wet with pre-come, rising and falling on the shaft of Kurt's rose-flushed dick, edging the tension along until Kurt is bending under the strain, his back curved and his pelvis snapping.

He makes an urgent noise, and Blaine tugs faster. Another noise, desperate and high-pitched, and Blaine cuts off his air supply completely again.

Into the buzzing silence Blaine breathes, "That's it. That's it. It's okay. Shhh, let me. There—there, you can take it, I know you can. Just a few more seconds and then you can breathe, okay?" Kurt feels the physical recoil of panic like the rise of his orgasm—too much, not enough, just enough—and then Blaine's hand relaxes and he sucks in a breath like mother's milk, sobbing.

He comes in Blaine's hand, spurting lush ropes of come between them, white-hot shapes flaring and dying in his vision as the jolts rip through his body. He blacks out for a few seconds and when he comes to, Blaine is lowering him down onto the bed. He lies there, limp and useless, as Blaine takes his pants off and cleans him with a moist towelette.

The trip of gentle fingertips undoing the knot around his throat makes him moan, and he closes his eyes just to get away from the too-much sensation of it after all of that.

Blaine lets him calm down, sitting quietly beside him on the bed. When he rolls over to get closer Blaine touches him, traces the marks on his throat with reverence.

"You never said," he says.

"Kind of a difficult topic to bring up over dinner."

"I guess so."

Kurt sits up carefully, his head spinning. "I want to see."

Blaine puts a hand on his back and supports him as he scoots to the edge of the bed, far enough to get a decent look at himself in the mirror. His throat is covered in long red marks, the vague shape of the neckerchief, slanted in a variety of angles where Blaine had twisted it. The vivid color against the paleness of his skin is shocking and immediately, visually erotic, making him flush and his spent cock pulse. He swallows heavily, and reaches up to touch the sensitive indentations.

Blaine kisses one, cupping the opposite side of his neck. "Are you okay? You look drained."

He nods, folding himself into Blaine's side. "It's the good kind. Trust me." He stares at their reflection, their bodies twined and the bright red marks around his slender throat, Blaine's lips so close and his fingers just there. "Thank you. That was—I'm not sure how long it would have taken me to ask for that without some kind of prompting."

"As long as it's good for you, I want to be able to give it to you," Blaine says. "Always."

Humming with relaxation, Kurt smiles.


End file.
